Apology
by Skylar P. Rose
Summary: "Shes nothing but hell with a dash of lip stick and some high heels" Sherlock is back from the dead, and hot on his trail a new villain and her handy assistant. Moriarty had pulled some strings but is this new competitor going to truly put Sherlock and Watson in their place?


SHERLOCK

Apology

PROLOGUE

"_Sherlock...please stop this... get up... Stop being __**dead**__"_

* * *

It had been...god knows how long and as John looked around he seemed to find some...distaste for the human race at that particular moment in time. Sherlock Holmes, the brilliant detectives, was lying dead in the ground...and they were all more worried about their tea on the kettle at home and their parking tickets. He adjusted his arms in his jacket as he stood in front of that door... those numbers that once spelled out home were nothing more than a jumbled mess of unsaid words and nearly forgotten memories.

He glanced up at the sky, the dark clouds ahead and the rain pelting him in the face was nothing but a mockery, a rather ironic one considering this was his favorite sort of day, a gloomy one, one out of the ordinary..he never did like boring. He looked around people passed, umbrellas open and his eyes locked with the eyes of a blond woman across the street, a pair of thick black glasses concealed the eyes he desperately wanted to lock onto, and it wasn't until the cab pulled out of the way, that he was tossed back into reality, and reminded of his purpose for taking a step back on this street.

By the looks of the mail all jammed in the slot in the wall it was apparent he'd been gone a lot longer than he previously thought. He was here to do nothing but get the last few items he wanted to hold onto. That damned skull, those last remaining books... His favorite tea kettle...his blanket, his sweats...his night wear...and well...anything else. It wasn't until he had to return to his old accommodations that he'd realized how truly alone he was. With nothing but his blog to keep him company, his sanity was slowly plowed into the ground, and with it, every last shred and ounce of hope that he'd be back..he never came. Not to him at least... Doctor John Watson...it once held such a high meaning, but it was nothing more than a name at this point... one that surely rolled off the tongue but what was he?... Nothing truly important. Not alone...not without him

He reached for the mail in the slot and held onto it as he reached in his pocket and balanced a rather large coffee cup with his arm as his fingers dug around in the leather pocket, searching for that key. He grunted and readjusted himself, and unlocked the lock and took a step inside. That familiar scent of tea and biscuits reached his nostrils, signifying Ms. Hudson had been there only moments ago. He let out a shaky breath he didn't know he was holding and began that slow trip up the stairs.

It had been weeks... brutal... unforgiving weeks. He wasn't even sure how many, he only knew he'd lost weight, lost sleep, and lost the ability to care about the activities of his fellow man. He didn't even bother reading the paper when they announced HIS death. He just saved it, putting it on a table by his lap top, writing about whatever he needed to. The blog was for mysteries...but his own. The mysteries of his own mind. John swallowed hard, making sure to do what he'd always done, hold himself back, and keep his feelings contained. Just thinking about his life and how it had taken a sharp turn for the worst, it did nothing but yank at feelings he did his best to bury... the same way they buried him. He reached the second flight of stairs and stopped briefly as a squeak rang out. The sound stopped and started again, and John blinked hard, and once the realization of the fact that the noise was not one fabricated by his own unbalanced mind, he retched, but stopped and shook his head, nodding.

"That sound...its...V-violin...Sherlock?" He whispered the name and sprinted up the stairs, tripping once, his foot flying roughly back as his face then collided with the last step of the flight, and he swiftly busted his chin on the stair whimpering lightly. His eyes practically rolled on their own as he shot up, holding the spot of injury, checking for blood, and scoffed before he continued his climb, smearing blood on the rail as he sprinted up the stairs at a rather unbelievable pace. He reached his destination, and grabbed the door, slinging it open, the coffee and mail slipping from his grip as he was unable to hold their grip on them any longer.

That tall slender figure standing in front of the window, his normal purple button up on his slender shoulders as he stopped again, and turned, his lips pressed thin until his eyes met with John's and the other stopped breathing.

_"Most people usually knock"_


End file.
